


La Vie En Rose

by TheItsyBitsyWriter



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Emotional, I don't know anything, Kinda, La vie en rose, M/M, Post-HYDRA Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Songfic, Top Steve Rogers, Wartime Romance, just implications, not really porn, soft fic, steve loves bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22692430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheItsyBitsyWriter/pseuds/TheItsyBitsyWriter
Summary: When Steve and Bucky are together, the world falls away and there's just the two of them— as it should be.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	La Vie En Rose

**Author's Note:**

> so a few months ago, I was rewatching HIMYM (as you do) and I was at that episode when Ted hears Tracy singing this song, and I thought it was so beautiful that I had to write a SteveBucky fic on it. Yes, it did take me several months to write it. Enjoy.  
> (p.s. this remains largely unedited, inaccurate, and absolutely trash, thank you for coming to my TED talk)

** La Vie En Rose **

Fractured moonlight spills in through the tiny window in the room and falls brokenly on the worn hardwood floors. The room is small— too small for a grown man, but who is Bucky to complain? He grew up dirt poor in Brooklyn, New York— he can’t complain about hotel rooms in some barely known town in France. He’s silent where he’s sat on the dainty chair by the window, hidden in the shadows. He’s naked where he sits, and a cigarette is tucked securely between his lips. His eyes are trained on the figure sprawled face-down in the bed in front of him.

Silver moonlight washes over the bed, and hugs the man’s body in a soft embrace. Every inch of his exposed skin is like an untouched canvas, beautiful and blank. Bucky takes a long drag of his cigarette as the man in the bed groans and turns around, and the bed groans and creaks along with him, until he’s laying on his back, and he lets out a very content sigh. Steve Rogers’s chest and lower legs are now visible for the whole world to see through the window, and Bucky thinks it’s rather a shame that he himself gets to be the only lucky son of a bitch to see the glorious piece of art that is Steven Grant Rogers. He draws pretty things and beautiful people, and yet he himself manages to remain the world’s most stunning work of art.

Bucky takes another drag of his cigarette as he intently watches Steve’s chest rise and fall in rhythm with his breathing, and he tries desperately to capture this moment in his mind’s eye for the rest of time. He wishes to remember this moment, this feeling for as long as he lives in this damned World; how it felt to sit in front of Steve, to have just made love to him for the first, but not the last time. He wants to remember what it felt like to love and be loved so beautifully, so painfully, so goddamn thoroughly. He wants to remember it for the rest of his life. And in the afterlife too. He thinks that if he was to die tomorrow or the next hour, he’d die the happiest son of a bitch.

The cigarette burns down to the filter and the heat is uncomfortable on Bucky’s fingertips so he crushes the rest of it out on the surface of the table near his elbow. Bucky leans forward then, his elbows on his knees and his fingers intertwined, and smiles. He smiles because there’s no one to see him, smiles because he’s oh-so in love with the man before him, smiles because what is there left to do except smile? There are tears pooling in his eyes, but he doesn’t bother to wipe them or differentiate whether they’re happy tears or sad tears. But mostly, though, he thinks they’re happy tears because he feels happy.

Bucky feels happier than he has ever felt. It’s as if there’s a certain weight that’s been lifted off his shoulders— a weight that he’d been unwittingly carrying around with him since a balmy summer’s day two decades ago. And it’s all so absurd; because here he is, sitting in the middle of wartime France, while the Second World War rages around him, and he’s never felt more at peace. It’s ridiculous, is what it is. He’s at peace while the World is at war.

His fingers find him another _Marlboro_ from the rapidly-emptying pack on the table, and he pushes it between his lips, and lights it. The smoke flies up and Bucky’s eyes watch it as it swirls in the air, stays for a second, and disappears. His eyes then come back down to Steve’s shape, still peacefully asleep on the creaky old bed, and wonders what good deeds he did in his pitifully menial and short life, that he gets to be the one that Steve Rogers falls in love with. He feels blessed, and feels as though he doesn’t deserve any of it; doesn’t deserve it because Steve is as perfect as a man can get, he’s solid gold. His existence is nothing short of a blessing in Bucky’s world, and just for that, Bucky believes there’s a God above who has got his back.

And when Bucky thinks about his life, and Steve’s presence in it, he feels so overwhelmed, he feels like he can absolutely start crying and never stop. His life has been so beautiful up until this point, he’s had his highs, and he’s had his lows, but whatever he faced, he had Steve beside him, since he was four years old. Steve is Bucky’s rock, always has been, always will be. And now, it feels as if he’s the very axis that his world spins on.

In front of him, Steve stirs in his sleep, and his hands pat around on the bed beside him. Bucky takes a long drag of his cigarette and allows Steve to wake up by himself— and Steve does, shortly after. He sits up in bed, hair a mess, and body glorious as he looks around in confusion. His eyes find Bucky— or more so, they find the faint red glow of the burning cigarette in the dark, and his shoulders relax tenfold.

“Buck.” He says simply, voice gravelly and sleepy.

“I’m here,” Bucky replies, takes another drag of the cigarette, then puts it out on the table, before he stands.

Steve audibly sucks in a sharp breath, and his hands dart out into the darkness towards Bucky. “I thought you… I thought you left.”

“Left?” Bucky asks, his tone incredulous as he walks forward and finds Steve’s seeking hands, and interlaces their fingers. “Where the fuck would I go, Steven, why I got my whole damn world right here?”

Steve lets out a shaky breath and it’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and Bucky finds himself briskly walking forward until he’s on the bed, and Steve’s arms are encircling his waist and pulling him forward. Steve’s mouth finds his throat in the darkness, and he works up to Bucky’s own lips, to capture them in a searing kiss. And Bucky thinks he’s going to die because Steve’s tongue is in his mouth, and Steve’s hands are grabbing, clutching, pulling at the flesh of Bucky’s ass, and Steve’s groaning deep in his throat. Bucky’s dick stirs and hardens and Steve feels it where it’s pressed against his abdomen— and his hands are the Devil himself, as they leave Bucky’s ass and tighten around his hardening dick, and Bucky yelps. For all his emotions and his love for Steve, he’s still rendered surprised when Steve takes charge and is aggressive with him.

“Oh, Jesus, oh fuck!” he pants into Steve’s mouth and Steve replies by bucking up under him and turning them both over to Bucky’s on his back and arching for any form of friction on his dick. Steve smiles and it’s so sinful and gorgeous that Bucky throws his head back on to the pillow and utters a little prayer to whoever would listen, that they may let this be his forever.

Steve’s kissing down Bucky’s chest, one of his hands is wrapped around the base of Bucky’s cock and the other one is gripping on to the top of Bucky’s left thigh with such force that Bucky’s sure his skin’s broken, but damn him if he cares even one bit. Steve’s a menace as he’s finally kissed all the way down Bucky’s torso and is now tenderly kissing the tip of Bucky’s dick.

Bucky nearly screams when Steve finally takes him into his mouth, and has to bite down on his lip to stop the feral sound escaping him. He doesn’t want to wake the entire complex that’s filled with their fellow soldiers, and he most certainly doesn’t want Dugan or Morita asking about it the next morning. That is, if he lives until next morning— which he doubts with the way Steve’s sucking him off.

Heat pools in Bucky’s stomach and he shivers, hands reaching down and twining into Steve’s hair, and he yanks him up. Steve lets out a gasp and it takes all of Bucky’s willpower not to come then and there. “No, not like this.” He tells a confused Steve. He pulls Steve up and kisses him sloppy and wet, and Steve moans. They break apart for air and Bucky whispers, “Fuck me.”

Steve startles at that; they had sex earlier that night, but it was Bucky who fucked Steve, not the other way around. And Steve was more than happy to accept that, because his new body was strong and resilient, and he knew he could take it. But with Bucky, he’s not sure.

“Buck, no, I— I’ve no idea how strong my body is. I could hurt you.”

“I’m not made of glass, punk. I can take it— please, I need to feel you.” Bucky replies, and damn it, who the fuck is Steve to deny him? With a surge and a guttural groan, Steve’s kissing him like tomorrow may never come, and he doesn’t even care.

And when ten minutes later, Steve’s all wrapped up tightly in Bucky’s arms and wrapped around his body like a sea urchin, he finds himself sighing happily. He didn’t break Bucky, like he’d feared, instead Steve kind of thinks Bucky broke his dick by clenching so tightly around him as he came. He doesn’t care. He has Bucky in his arms, and the world’s alright.

The curtains hanging in front of the window blow softly in the cool night breeze, and someone’s singing voice from down the street carries faintly into the room. Bucky hums contentedly and tightens his arms around Steve. He listens to the singing voice for a second then chuckles, and Steve looks up.

“Hm? What is it?”

“The song.”

Steve listens too, and realizes it’s in French. He doesn’t understand French— not as well as Bucky, at least. “What’s he singing?”

“ _She_ is singing about la vie en rose.” Bucky tells him softly, “she’s singing about seeing life through rose-colored glasses. Which means her lover’s made her see her life in a better light. That her life’s better for having her lover in it.”

“Mine too, then.” Steve replies, kisses Bucky’s chest, right above his heart and whispers, “I love you, James Barnes.”

Bucky smiles widely, and feels his heartbeat falter, then kisses the top of Steve’s head, and says, “And I love you so much more, Stevie.”

Outside their hotel room, the singing coming from down the street continues, even as the few lights around flicker off, even as Bucky and Steve both fall asleep, each holding on tightly to the centre of each of their worlds, not caring what tomorrow may bring. Because happiness is finally within their grasp, and damn them to hell and back if they’d ever let go.


End file.
